


Simmons' Science Log

by naasad



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Autistic Simmons, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medium Burn, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, food insecurity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-05 20:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17925464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naasad/pseuds/naasad
Summary: Entry 1Grif's relationship with food possibly more complex than initially assumed.





	1. Entry One

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'm just starting a lot of fics lately? I promise I **_will_** finish Madison soon. I hope.

**Simmons' Science Log**  
**Entry 1**  
_Grif's relationship with food possibly more complex than initially assumed. Further observation required. Documented interaction below._

* * *

 

"Hold up," Grif said, stopping in the middle of the canyon.

Simmons sighed and turned to face him. "What now?"

"I'm starting to get hungry."

"Only starting to? Can't you wait until we get back to base? We're almost done with our patrol."

Grif paused in his rifling through his pockets and pouches to give Simmons a Look. "If I wait until we get back to base, Sarge is going to want a report the minute we walk in, you're going to want to be as excruciatingly detailed as possible, which means you'll take at least an hour to describe everything we've seen. Which is nothing, by the way. Then Sarge will take another hour to berate me for even breathing in his presence, then he's going to kneecap me. Again. Then you're going to have to spend another three hours replacing my knee. Again. That's five hours between me and food, Simmons. That's unacceptable. I'm taking a snack break, learn to live with it."

Simmons groaned. "Fine, just make it quick."

"It will be, I just have to find - god ** _damn_** it!"

"What? What's wrong?"

"It's gone," Grif said, frantically searching every pocket he could find. "I'm out."

"Well, I guess you'll just have to wait five hours then."

Grif tore off his helmet, sucking in deep breaths that whistled between his teeth. "I'm out," he gasped. "I'm out, I'm out, I'm out."

"Whoa, hey, I think I might have - " Simmons reached out with one hand to comfort his squad mate, and Grif flinched bodily back. Simmons held up his hands in a gesture of peace and offered the ration bar he'd found in his back pocket.

Grif snatched the bar, ripped open the foil, and devoured the whole thing in three bites before leaning back on a nearby rock with his head between his legs, trying to stop hyperventilating.

Simmons hesitated, then took off his own helmet and sat next to him, keeping a hand on his rifle and an eye out for any Blues.

"Fuck, Simmons," Grif said once he could breathe properly, slumping against him and tossing the wrapper over his shoulder. "You're a lifesaver. I could quite honestly kiss you right now!"

Simmons whipped around to stare in shock, putting their bare faces entirely too close.

They stared for a good long while. Just as Simmons parted his lips and began to lean closer, Grif pulled back, clearing his throat.

"Let's finish patrol," he said, cramming his helmet back on. "And... You know. Thanks."

"Any time," Simmons murmured, but Grif was already walking away.

* * *

 

Later that night, as Grif was recovering from knee surgery and Simmons was putting away what tools he'd learned to work with, he spotted an open box of emergency rations on a nearby shelf.

Simmons glanced around - he didn't know why, he wasn't stealing - and took a handful, stuffing them into his pockets. Just in case.


	2. Entry Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That Grif stores caches of food in discrete locations is an already known fact._

**Entry 2**   
_That Grif stores caches of food in discrete locations is an already known fact; however, his relief when they are protected is a newly observed phenomenon. More research is required._

 

* * *

 

 

Sarge was cackling, and that was never a good sign.

Simmons sighed and looked up from where he was tinkering with his arm. “What is it, sir?”

“Simmons!” Sarge hollered, beaming. “I’ve finally found a way to motivate Grif! If he won’t train, then he won’t eat! It worked for that karate panda! It should work for him….”

“Sir, you tried that before, remember? It didn’t work. Grif just ate from his secret caches for a week, and then you gave up.”

“Yes, Simmons, that was a dark day…. But now I have a secret weapon!”

“What’s that, sir?”

“You!”

Simmons blinked in shock. “M-me, sir?”

“Yes, Simmons! You’ve cleaned this base from top to bottom! Multiple times! You must know where each and every one of those crummy stashes are…. And I do mean crumb-y! The man’s a pig!”

Simmons sighed. He did know where Grif’s food caches were, much to his squadmate’s chagrin. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll help.”

“Help what?” Grif asked, walking straight to the fridge and grabbing a beer.

Sarge laughed. “Help me take you down once and for all, Grif! Simmons is going to show me all your secret stashes of food like the good soldier he is, and then it’s the treadmill for you, Private!”

Simmons flinched guiltily at the praise and looked away, towards Grif. He could’ve sworn he looked almost hurt for a second there.

“Whatever,” Grif deadpanned, walking away. “Good luck.”

“So!” Sarge turned to Simmons. “Where’s the nearest stash?”

Simmons sighed, ignoring the way his stomach turned with guilt. “Check beneath the stove, in that drawer we never use.”

There was an almighty screech of metal on tile as Sarge opened the door, quickly followed by a plethora of clangs and bans as he overturned each and every spare pan or other cookware.

Simmons cringed and slapped his hands over his ears. Too loud, too loud. He missed the noise buffering in his helmet.

“What in tarnation?” Sarge marched over, coming to a stop square in front of Simmons with his hands on his hips. “There’s nothing there! Explain yourself, soldier!”

“Sorry, sir,” Simmons said. “He must have moved them all since I last cleaned.”

“Unacceptable!” Sarge trailed off into a series of muttered expletives. “Well, how do you know he moved all of them and not just this one?”

“Grif is very thorough when it comes to his food, sir, even if nothing else.”

Sarge snarled.

Simmons flinched. “Well, sir, there’s one last place we can check. Grif always keeps food within reach, even when he’s asleep. If there’s no food under his bed, he’s definitely moved all his caches.”

“Lead on, Simmons…. Lead on….” Sarge cocked his shotgun.

Simmons took a wary step backward. “I… don’t think you’ll be needing that, sir.”

 

* * *

 

When they arrived in the bunkroom, Grif was curled up on his bed, facing the wall. He glanced at them without moving. “That fast, huh?”

“Grif!” Sarge bellowed. “Move your lazy keister so we can search the room!”

Grif visibly deflated but gave an exaggerated snort and rolled out of bed, walking to the door and coming to parade rest.

“Where did you say it was, Simmons?”

“Under the bed, sir.”

Grif’s head snapped up in shock.

“Ah-ha!” Sarge beamed. “You know we’ve caught you!” He got down on his hands and knees and peered under the bunk. “Simmons! There’s nothing here!”

Simmons looked up and made eye contact with Grif. “Try looking in the far back, sir, just to be safe.”

Sarge grunted and proceeded to army crawl under the bed, ass waving undignified in the air. “There’s nothing here but a couple of hairballs and a pair of old, smelly socks! It’s chemical warfare down here!”

Grif stifled a giggle as he wiggled back out.

Sarge growled and stalked over, jabbing Grif in the chest with his pointer finger. “You dastardly deadbeat! You must’ve known what we were planning! I’ll just have to find them myself…. As you were, Simmons!”

Once the door closed, Grif and Simmons collapsed in a fit of laughter.

Grif sighed and sat down on the edge of his mattress. “I haven’t hidden food under my bed since basic training. You knew that, right?”

“Obviously.” Simmons sat down next to him, their elbows almost brushing.

“How much did it hurt to lie to a superior officer?”

“You have no idea.”

“ _Dude_.”

“Dude.” Simmons turned and smiled tenderly. “I’ve seen you when you’re hungry. It’s not pretty.”

Grif snorted and flopped over backwards. “Whatever. You want a Twinkie?”

“Ugh. Gross. Just thinking about it makes me need a salad.”

Grif shrugged. “More for me,” he said, crossing over to the false wall behind the bunk across from his. “Herbivore.”

“Omnivore,” Simmons corrected.

“Exactly. I am an omnivore – exactly the way humans were meant to be. You can't insult me, Simmons.” Grif shoved the entire twinkie in his mouth in one go, and Simmons choked.


End file.
